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“Right.” He drew his wand from his belt and flexed the fingers of his free hand. “Goddesses, if any of you were thinking of granting me your favor just once in my entire life, now would be a good time.”

He swept his wand round in a circle, murmuring words of protection as he established the boundaries of the ritual space. The air felt abruptly heavier, like a thunderstorm about to break. There was the familiar sensation of sudden, rather unnerving attention; the universe glancing his way with a raised eyebrow, as though to say: Yes?

One did not hang around under that lazy, crushing regard, because the universe had an absolutely terrible sense of humor, and you didn’t want it to start coming up with its own ideas about what you might want (or, goddesses forfend, what you deserved). Of course, it was just as dangerous to rush, in case you left a loophole for fate to exploit. Magic was mostly a matter of intent, correspondences, and being very, very specific.

Aodhan moved through the steps of the spell with calm, unhurried motions, despite the way his heart was still trying to tug itself through his ribcage. In clear, precise syllables, he chanted the spell, precisely defining the scope of his desires so that there could be no misunderstanding.

No harm, he told the universe as he poured sea salt into a bowl carved from black tourmaline. That was the first rule you learned as a mage; that curses had a way of coming round to bite you in the end, one way or another. And in any event, he had no wish to kill whoever was trying to summon him. He just wanted to be left alone.

Hawthorn for protection, nettle for solitude. He crushed the fresh green leaves between forefinger and thumb, accepting the stinging burn of the plant’s retribution. He was used to pain, after all. It was a small price to pay for freedom.

With his wand, he sketched sigils of aversion and banishment, turning to cover every quadrant of the compass. They hung in the air, bright and stark.

Finally, he picked up the iron pyrite. Aodhan couldn’t help an involuntary shudder of revulsion. It felt like clasping a corpse, cold and dead. His glowing sigils flickered like wind-blown candles. For an instant, he was gripped by a deep, powerful urge to hurl the stone away.

But that would mean surrendering to fate, and throwing away everything he had worked so hard to achieve. Setting his jaw, Aodhan tightened his grip on the stone. He touched the cold, rough surface to his lips.

“Heart of stone, heart of iron,” he whispered, his breath misting on the hard, glittering rock. “Let the Call go unheard. Let the bond be cut.”

The gnawing urgency in his chest faltered, just a little, like a missed heartbeat. Encouraged, Aodhan kissed the pyrite crystal again, then placed it in the salt-filled bowl. Switching his wand for a small obsidian knife, he pricked the ball of his left ring finger.

“I reject this fate,” he said as a drop of blood welled. He held his hand over the pyrite. “I stand alone, now and always. So I will it. So let it be.”

The red droplet fell onto the stone. His sigils flared, swirling together like a hurricane of light. The white-hot energy poured into the iron pyrite, and—

Nothing happened.

“Well, fuck,” Aodhan said with great feeling.

He broke the ritual circle with a wave of his hand, allowing the gathered power to drain away. Dropping into a chair, he scowled at what should have been a powerful enchantment. The lump of pyrite glittered at him from the salt-filled bowl, nothing more than a pretty rock.

The Call pulled again at his heart.

Aodhan gripped the armrests of his chair, tight-jawed and sweating, until the urge to bolt from the room passed. From what the herd elders had said, the Call was supposed to start as a gentle tug. This was about as gentle as cave troll foreplay. He dreaded to imagine what it might be like after another hour, let alone a day.

Pushing back his hair, he stared once more at the pyrite. The spell should have worked. It was precise. Elegant. There was no reason it shouldn’t have done exactly as he’d specified—

Aodhan let out a stream of heartfelt swearwords in fourteen dead languages—two of which were not designed for humanoid mouths—and thumped his forehead on the desk.

No harm, he’d specified in his spell, very clearly. If the warrior trying to summon him was in immediate danger, then his absence would cause harm. For all he knew, they could be in mortal peril, and calling out to him with their dying breath.

Perhaps, if he just waited a few more minutes…

The Call yanked at him, even more insistently.

“Fuck,” Aodhan muttered again.

Whoever was calling him, it was clearly urgent. No doubt some ass of a high sidhe warrior who’d gone in search of glory and was now up to their neck in ogres. Tempting as it was to lock himself in a closet until it was all over, it would be tantamount to murder to stand by and do nothing.

With a deep sigh of resignation, he put the iron pyrite back in its box. The moment the lid closed, the crow-cat fluttered down from the rafters. She pecked experimentally at the bowl of salt, then let out a derisive caw.

“Did I ask for your opinion?” Aodhan shooed the pest away. “If you don’t have anything useful to contribute, go find a pixie to maul. Go on, shoo. You can’t stay around here. I’m going out.”

The crow-cat shook her plumage, then soared off in search of something to dismember. Aodhan could only hope that her next victim wouldn’t be one of his pillows. Again.

He contemplated tidying up the rest of the ritual, then decided to leave it all out in readiness. The spell would work. He was sure of it. All he had to do was haul this cursed would-be rider out of whatever trouble they were in, and then he could hot-foot it back to his tree and try again. After that, the bloody fool could throw themselves down a manticore den, for all he cared. Once he’d succeeded in casting the ritual, the bond between their souls would be permanently severed.

He hoped.

Closing his eyes, he turned his attention inward. He wasn’t skilled at scrying or spells for finding people—most of his time had been devoted to mastering the art of transformation, for obvious reasons—but following the Call was a matter of instinct, not book-learning.

South, his heart told him, along with an impression of distance. The magic of the Call would give him unnatural speed, but he could tell it was still too far to travel on foot.

Which meant… he’d have to fly.

“What an absolutely marvelous day I’m having,” Aodhan observed to no one, and went to meet his doom.


Tags: Zoe Chant Fae Mates Paranormal